


the art of a timeless romance

by edbloom



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Friends to Lovers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edbloom/pseuds/edbloom
Summary: I give you my everything.Ego. Pride. Soul. Heart. And bones.You have it all, my love.—amidst all his responsibilities and duties as prince, jaemin falls for the gardener's grandson.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Na Jaemin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 151
Collections: '00 FIC FEST ROUND TWO





	the art of a timeless romance

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hi !!
> 
> prompter for #00005, my liege, i hope you like it!!
> 
> i apologize for not adding the other dreamies but i just didn't know when to add them :c so sadly, this mainly focuses on jaemin and renjun. i really did enjoy writing this as i am truly a sucker for royalty aus. i hope you all enjoy reading it as much i enjoyed writing it !!
> 
> also i'm sorry for the inaccuracies !! i really tried my best doing research on this 
> 
> also also!! i'd really like to thank my beta for helping me :ccccc you have no idea how much you helped me shape this fic.
> 
> okay, that is all!!
> 
> enjoy!! 
> 
> \- writer for #00005

Jaemin has been four years old for two weeks now. 

Usually, his day would be spent inside the palace—studying calligraphy, etiquette, and everything else his father says he should know. The way he knows the stars will shine and the sea will rise and fall, Jaemin should know everything else, or so his father says. 

Today was different—not because Jaemin ate what he ate for his birthday or that his teachers gave him a free day—but because his father is currently taking him for a walk around the garden.

The sun was shining brightly this summer, Jaemin tried to look at the sun a while ago but it immediately blinded him. He scratched his eyes lightly, trying to get rid of the bright spots in his vision.

“Jaemin,” he hears his father say. Jaemin looks up to him with squinted eyes. His father laughs before kneeling down to look him in the eye. “Have you learned about flowers yet?”

“Not yet,” Jaemin says with a pout. “The teachers said they’re waiting for next spring.”

His father just hums with a smile before he tells Jaemin—“I’ll get ahead of them for once. Come with me.” A hand is offered to Jaemin and he takes it without any hesitation; his father stands up and brushes his robes.

They walk through the garden and Jaemin revels in how the flowers get more colorful and the arrangements get more intricate the farther they walk through. Trees with various shades of yellow, white and pink flutter against the breeze of the summer afternoon. 

Jaemin decides this is his favorite place in the palace—with the soft breeze, and the pretty flowers. He also decides he wants to know more about the flowers.

The long stone path leads to a stone fountain surrounded by more flower bushes and tall trees. In the center of it all is an old man, tending to the wild flowers lining the fountain. His father smiles, small and soft.

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” his father says with a light tone. Jaemin looks at his dad with wide eyes before turning back to the old man.

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” Jaemin copies his dad with a bow. The old man watches him stumble before he lets out a chuckle (though Jaemin thinks it sounds more like a cough).

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” the old man says before bowing to his father and then he turns to Jaemin. “Good afternoon, Young Prince.” He bows and Jaemin rushes to bow to him too.

“May I ask Your Highness what brings you to the garden?” Jaemin did not realize it earlier but the old man had a thick accent that Jaemin cannot place. 

“I wanted Jaemin to see the flowers before winter comes again,” his father says before placing his hand on Jaemin’s back. “Jaemin, this is our court gardener, Uncle Huang.” Jaemin nods in recognition as his father continues. “He knows more about flowers than your teachers will ever know.”

Uncle Huang chuckles at that before he picks a flower from near them before showing it to Jaemin. A bright white flower is in his palm, clean and gentle, the petals flutter against the breeze and Uncle Huang gives it to Jaemin.

Jaemin marvels at how big the flower looks in his palm—he peaks at the stark yellow center before looking back at Uncle Huang with curiosity and wide eyes.

“That’s a _moglyeon_ ,” Uncle Huang says. Jaemin mouths it along him before he touches the petals lightly, gasping at how soft it is between his finger tips. “ _Moglyeon_ stands for nobility and dignity.”

Jaemin starts and looks at one of the bushes near the big tree before rushing to it; the bright pink flowers catch his attention and the strange things sticking out from the center remind Jaemin of butterfly antennas. “Uncle Huang! What are these?”

“Those are called _jindallae_ ,” Uncle Huang says with a chuckle. Jaemin’s mouth forms a wide ‘o’ before he looks back at the flowers with wonder, whispering _jindallae_ to himself.

“What do they mean?” Jaemin whispers loudly.

“They mean femininity and softness,” Uncle Huang says as he walks to where Jaemin is.

“F-feminininity?” Jaemin tries to roll the word against his tongue but it just feels uncomfortable.

Uncle Huang pats his back, chuckling at Jaemin’s pronunciation. “You give _jindallae_ to someone you love, they usually—”

“Grandpa!” a young voice calls out from the other side of the court. Jaemin snaps to look at where the voice came from. He sees a young boy—Jaemin thinks he looks a lot younger than him—running to them but specifically, Uncle Huang.

The boy stops in his tracks once he sees Jaemin’s father and Jaemin. With a sound yelp, he rushes to hide behind Uncle Huang’s legs.

Uncle Huang says something to the boy that Jaemin can’t understand with an accent he has never heard before. The old man turns to Jaemin’s father. “I’m very sorry, Your Highness.”

His father shakes his head with a small chuckle. “It is fine, Uncle.” He turns to Jaemin with a smile before he nudges him. “Jaemin, this is Uncle Huang’s grandson, Renjun.” The boy— _Renjun_ —peeks from behind Uncle Huang’s leg before slowly bowing to Jaemin’s father and then Jaemin himself.

“Good afternoon, Renjun,” Jaemin says with a wide smile—trying to comfort Renjun and show him that he wasn’t scary at all.

“G-good afternoon, Young Prince,” Renjun says softly—almost as soft as the _molgyeon_ ’s petals between Jaemin’s fingers.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next time Renjun sees the Young Prince is a couple of years later.

He’s nine years old and the breeze has gotten much, much colder.

The leaves are slowly turning into a light brown color. _Autumn_ , his grandfather said was the reason why. _When the days get colder and the leaves turn brown, it means they are preparing for winter_.

Renjun watches the flowers of the _molgyeon_ ’s tree wilt and free fall as he walks through the pathway. It almost feels like rain, the way the petals caress his cheeks as they cascade down the stone path. 

There is a part where the path diverges; if he turns left, Renjun finally gets home, will finally be able to clean off the mud on his feet and knees, but—if he turns right, he gets to see the final flowers of the _mugunghwa_ shrub bloom, and for him, staying just a little while more is worth the dry mud on his legs. 

With that in mind, he runs through the falling flowers, rushing towards the _mugunghwa_.

He feels a giggle spill through his lips as his feet take him to the edge of the palace garden. _Mugunghwa_ was not something his grandpa or the uncles and aunties voluntarily planted, that is why they bloomed beside the cobblestone walls. His grandpa says they were common in Silla. If Renjun ever wandered outside the palace, the first thing he would see was a _mugunghwa_ shrub. _There is nothing special about them_ , his grandpa would always say. Despite that, they were still Renjun’s favorite, with their soft pink petals and dark pink centers. They always fascinated him. _And,_ Renjun thinks _, they remind me of home_. It was one of the few flowers that grew in China too. He does not remember China—in all honesty, his grandpa hardly ever mentions where they came from. Aside from the language, Renjun knows nothing about his homeland. 

_Except,_ he stumbles to a halt as the _mugunghwa_ shrubs welcome him. _This_ , he guesses. A happy sigh slips out from his lips as he walks closer to the flowers. His fingers brush against the petals of the flowers—soft and sweet. There’s a handful of buds that have yet to bloom in one of the shrubs 

Kneeling on the ground, he caresses the soft buds, and with the quietest voice he can muster, he whispers—“Good afternoon, _mugunghwa-ssi_.”

“The afternoons are getting colder now,” Renjun hums. “Grandpa says it is your last chance to bloom. After four more moons, you will not get to anymore.”

He sighs, plopping down on the muddy muddy ground. “I get why you might not want to bloom—it _is_ getting cold. But it is worth it, I promise.”

“The sun in the morning is always so refreshing, you even have the perfect spot for it! And even though the breeze feels like ice, the sun is always warm!”

Fingers pick the stray grass near his legs, “It actually feels quite nice. I like it a lot.”

“You do not _have_ to bloom, you are not obligated to. But I still think it will be neat if you do.”

“My grandpa says you are not anything special, but for me you are—”

“Hey! Come back here!” 

A sudden yell echoes from behind him, followed by light, quick footsteps. Renjun turns to tell them to quiet down, that they might scare the flowers and they might not bloom anymore. But before he could—they crash into Renjun, all bones and mass. Renjun quickly avoids the shrubs and lands instead on the grassy patch beside him.

“Hey!”

“He—Your Highness?” Renjun gapes at the Young Prince, at the wide-eyed, gap-toothed, mud-ridden Prince beside him. He is not looking at Renjun, he quickly realizes. Renjun shifts to look at what he is staring at. 

A hand quickly stops him, grip tight, but the Prince’s eyes still weren’t looking at him. “Do not move,” comes the whisper.

“What?” Slips out but Renjun quickly remedies it with a—“do you mean, Your Highness?”

“A butterfly is sitting on a flower above you.” Renjun tries to hold in a scoff.

“Have you never seen a butterfly before, Your Highness?”

There is sarcasm in his tone, something he got from the uncles who helped his grandpa, but it seems as if the Young Prince does not realize it. _Or_ , Renjun thinks _, he is not familiar with it_.

“I have,” the Young Prince says after minutes of silence, finally glancing at Renjun before turning his attention back to the butterfly. “Just not this color.”

“My tutors say butterflies usually come in white, yellow, or black. But this one.” Something about the awe in his voice grips Renjun to continue listening to him. “This one is _green_.”

There, somewhere in the grassy patches near the cobblestone walls of the palace, beside the shrubs of the _mugunghwa_ , kneels the Young Prince of Silla, looking at a butterfly in pure awe and naivete, as Renjun, the old gardener’s grandson, sits in front of him, staring at him—captivated in every sense of the word.

“Woah,” the Young Prince quietly gasps. A small smile blooms from his face. “It’s drinking from the flowers.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They become friends after that.

Jaemin helped Renjun up once the butterfly was gone. With strong hands and a toothy grin, Renjun could not say no to him. not because he was the Prince, but because there was something about his smile that compelled him to take the offered hand. A force, like a magnet—the way his grandpa says the moon follows the Earth, and the Earth follows the Sun. 

It was like Prince Jaemin was the Sun and it was against Renjun’s entire being not to follow him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Jaemin and Renjun were both thirteen, Jaemin quickly discovers.

He learns after sneaking out to the garden, looking for the old gardener’s grandson. Feet running lightly across the long stone path, thick white snow blurring in his peripheral vision, snowflakes caressing his cheeks—soft and gentle, like the petals of a _molgyeon_. 

It takes him a long time to find him—too many turns and round-abouts in the garden. _A maze_ , one of his tutors taught him once, _a collection of paths designed to be a puzzle where you try to escape_. The garden was a maze but it was not the exit he was looking for. He did not seek to get out just yet, he needed to find someone first.

When he finally does, even with the heavy breathing and the pain in his feet, Jaemin cannot help but smile at the sight that welcomes him.

Somewhere in the deepest crevice of the garden sits the old gardener’s grandson, tending to the bushes of flowers, bright red against the clean snow. _Newly bloomed by the looks of it_ , Jaemin thinks. 

_Dongbaek_ , he realizes as he gets closer.

“The _dongbaek_ has bloomed already?” Jaemin says after taking a deep breath, hands behind his back. He watches Renjun perk up and turn to him with a whisper of a smile. Renjun stands up quickly, wiping his hands on his clothes, before bowing to him. Jaemin returns it quickly, does not even try to stop him because he already knows what Renjun will say when he does.

_You are the Prince of Silla; act like it_.

So Jaemin lets Renjun: lets him fuss over the dirt embedded in his banji, lets him straighten his clothes even though they look beyond saving, lets him bow to him—hands folded in front and all. Because Jaemin is the Prince of Silla, and he would grant his friend absolutely anything that he wanted.

“The _dongbaek_ has bloomed already?” Jaemin repeats once Renjun can look him in the eye again. Renjun nods to him before looking back to the tall bushes, almost taller than Renjun himself. 

“Just like how grandfather said they would,” Renjun says, voice so soft yet so willful. Jaemin steps closer to him then, deliberate and slow. He has all the time in the world, never mind the tutors he left behind, or the responsibilities and consequences waiting for him back in the palace. Time stops in the garden, Jaemin quickly realizes; it is like the Earth has suddenly chosen to turn slower.

His fingers brush against the bundle of petals, magnificent in the way they layer over one another, creating an alluring pattern. _Soft to touch_ , Jaemin notes before he plucks one. He can almost hear the way Renjun rolls his eyes. But he pays him no mind. _Sweet_ , he thinks smelling it.

“The Queen says _dongbaek_ is her favorite flower,” Jaemin says, soft enough to be a whisper but strong enough for the wind to carry it.

“Maybe that is why my grandfather has been nagging me all throughout winter,” Renjun says with a snort, eyes on the flowers. “He assigned me to tend to the _dongbaek_ at the end of autumn, and has not stopped reminding me about them since the first snowflake dropped.”

“You did a good job.”

“Thank you,” Renjun says, finally turning his attention back to Jaemin.

“Mother will love it.” Something in Renjun’s eyes soften at that small bout of intimacy, at that childish vulnerability his father had told him to keep within the vicinity of the palace— _they can use it against you_ , his father had said. _You are thirteen now Jaemin_ , he had said as if the words had any weight, as if Jaemin understood what it was supposed to mean.

Thirteen, Jaemin learns, meant responsibilities. It meant learning duties, understanding the weight of what “Prince” really meant. It meant no more going to the garden to chase after bugs, or to watch falling flowers; it meant staying in the palace, learning words he was going to need when he grew older, when it is finally his turn to rule. Thirteen meant no more sneaking into the kitchen to steal rice cakes. It meant consequences and reprimands because _we expect more from you now, Jaemin_.

Thirteen, Jaemin came to find out, was the worst thing to ever happen to him.

“Thank you.” 

“So what brought you to the garden?” Renjun asks, snapping Jaemin out of his thoughts. He focuses his attention, and Renjun looks him in the eye, searching for something.

“Wanted to play.” Thank the gods there was Renjun.

Amidst the prison that was twelve and thirteen, Renjun stood beside him—visiting him when he can, entertaining him when he snuck out of his lectures, teaching Jaemin the games he sees the common kids play.

_I do not really like playing with them_ , Renjun once said with a scrunch of his nose. _They are not you_.

Jaemin holds that moment in a chest, hidden away in the corners of his heart.

Renjun smiles then, _really_ smiles—eyes scrunched, crooked teeth type of smile, playful and childish in every dip and crease. The one smile that Jaemin knows only he sees, only he knows still exists. 

(Because Jaemin learns, once the sun is setting and they’re both sitting under the barren _molgyeon_ tree, how thirteen feels like for Renjun too—it tastes like pungent herbal medicines and smells so similarly to the stench of dying.)

“I saw this game the other servants’ kids were playing near the wall of the palace. It is very simple! Give me your hands…”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Renjun does not know exactly how, but Jaemin keeps showing up. 

He does not expect him to, despite Jaemin promising so—Renjun was not naive anymore to believe the words of a prince, especially with regards to something like a promise.

But he does, against all the odds and Renjun’s cynical expectations.

Jaemin shows up; he shows up against the flowering buds of spring, against the bright sun of summer, against the barren trees and browning leaves of autumn, and the harsh white snow of winter. He visits despite his lectures, despite his duties, despite everything in the palace—Jaemin makes an effort to see him. 

Renjun never really understood why.

  
  


In the pin drop silence of the night, as they lean against the palace walls, watching the moon shimmer bright, Renjun cannot stop himself when he asks.

“Jaemin.” He gets a quiet hum from the Prince.

“Can I ask?”

“What?” Jaemin looks at him then, serious and attentive.

“Why do you insist to see me despite the fact that you are not permitted to, and objectively, should not even have the time to?” Renjun asks, every word dripping with curiosity.

There’s a breeze of quiet before something happens again. Eyes never leave Renjun’s, as Jaemin whispers against the wind, “I can breathe easily when I’m with you.”

“Everything is always so hectic in the palace, and my lectures are always so long and draining. I cannot hear myself think, nor can I breathe when I’m inside the palace—but with you, every time I look at you, every time I spend time with you, it is like my heart and mind can rest, as if my body is made to just be with you. Almost as if I’m a carp out of water and you are the river I’m yearning for, I can only find rest when I’m with you.”

Silence. “I guess that is why.”

Renjun doesn’t say anything then, left to gape and stare at Jaemin as he flutters his eyes shut, moonlight gliding across his face.

  
  
  


He didn’t have to say anything then, but when Renjun sneaks into Jaemin’s chambers one night—eyes swollen and red, long hair down, and clothes creased and rumpled. He smells like death, and Renjun knows Jaemin can smell it too because he does not ask—he opens his arms and Renjun clings onto him like a child to their parents. He cries then, again and again until sleep washes over him.

_I can only find rest when I’m with you_ , Renjun thinks he finally understood what Jaemin meant that night.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Jaemin does not realize it immediately. 

It takes years for it to wash over him—it steeps and steeps in the crevices of his mind but he does not dare see what has been brewing.

The realization takes a while—it takes turning 18 and his father calling Renjun to court for Jaemin to finally acknowledge it.

  
  
  


Renjun kneels before the King, hands to his knees and his head bowed. The King raises his hand to signal for him to rise. Jaemin does not know what is happening, and was surprised when he saw Renjun enter the halls. Anxiety creeps from the small of his back to his nape, watching the King’s expression before turning back to Renjun’s masked one. He knows his friend is nervous as well, knows the nervous tic he has—lightly tapping patterns in his wrist, it is the same tic he does when he has to tell the garden aunties a flower bush is showing signs of withering. 

(Jaemin found it endearing. Renjun found it bothersome.)

  
  


The King’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts—slightly. Jaemin is not yet completely out of his head, the exchange sounding like a whisper to his ear. He does not hear it clearly—maybe because he was not paying attention, or maybe because he was scared of what was to come.

Renjun turned eighteen a few moons ago—now without his grandfather, Jaemin knew nothing was tying Renjun down here in Silla anymore. He saw how Renjun read the old scrolls his grandfather left for him in their cottage (a _qieyun_ , Renjun once told him—he tried saying it but he ended up giving up, especially when he saw how much Renjun was holding back his laughter), he saw how Renjun went out of his way to visit the _mugunghwa_ at the edge of the palace. Jaemin heard how Renjun would hum Chinese lullabies under his breath when tending to the plants in the garden. 

Maybe, Jaemin knew exactly why the King called Renjun to the court. Maybe, he just did not want to admit to himself why. 

The conversation flows through Jaemin like a small stream—he hears, he nods, but at the end of it all, when the King dismisses Renjun, he remembers nothing.

(Jaemin cannot admit it but he is glad he did not listen. He does not know what he would have done if he heard Renjun say it.)

  
  
  
  
  
  


But Jaemin is Jaemin, and Jaemin is naturally curious with no sense of self-control.

It happens in the garden, because it always does. It happens behind the palace, near the cobblestone walls, because it always does. It happens because it is Jaemin, and when it comes to Renjun, all restraint he has is thrown into the fire. 

Renjun is creating rings of _iksolasok_ , attaching the end of each stem to the flower of the other. It sticks like honey sap. He says it is because the front of each _iksolasok_ has a hole that the stem fits in. Jaemin thinks Renjun is just magic.

The wind rustles the tree above them, causing some leaves to fall—like snowflakes. One of them gets stuck in Renjun’s hair but he pays them no mind, too focused on attaching more flowers to the loop. He does not know what compels him, nor does he know what even crossed his mind to do it, but before he could stop himself—his hand reaches over to brush it off Renjun’s hair, fingers to his hair then to his skin. Jaemin watches the way his fingers caress Renjun’s skin, breath stuck in his throat, before he snatches his hand back—like he was burnt by a flame that was not there. He feels panic surge in him, it bubbles and boils; turmoil has never been something Jaemin was familiar with.

The boy he touched though, the boy he grew up with, the boy who touched flowers like they were a blessing, and who tended to them with a silent dedication; the boy does not mind him or his inner conflict. Renjun does not even glance at his direction, serious in his craft. Jaemin stares because it is all he can do, and all he has only ever done. He stares and stares until Renjun finally looks at him.

“What is it?” Renjun asks, voice light and soft.

“Nothing” he answers quickly. Maybe, too quickly because Renjun looks him in the eye with a raised eyebrow, eyes too curious for Jaemin’s comfort.

Renjun sighs, putting down the crown of flowers. “What is it, Jaemin-ah?” he asks again, this time more insistently.

“What did my father ask you?”

“Were you not there?”

“I was. I just did not hear it.”

“Did not hear it? I did not know you were deaf, my Prince.”

He shoots it back just as quickly, sarcastic but malleable. Jaemin swears to the heavens how they managed to make him meet a boy who could read him as clear as the stars, despite coming from a different kingdom.

“Fine. I was not quite paying attention—”

“Did not _want_ to pay attention,” Renjun says, eyes narrowing. “There is a difference, Jaemin.”

He says it like he has a knife to Jaemin’s throat, but with a tilt of his head. It is enough to still leave Jaemin endeared.

Quiet passes, a stand-still. Jaemin does not want to admit to it and Renjun will not let it go until he does.

There really is no question as to who breaks first.

“I did not want to pay attention,” Jaemin whispers to the wind.

The traitor makes sure it gets to Renjun, despite Jaemin’s wishes for it not to.

“Why?”

“Because I know what my father was going to ask. I know because it has been an unspoken question the moment your grandfather died. I know because I have been too scared to ask for a very long time. I know because I know exactly what you are going to answer.” Jaemin did not plan for it to come out in one breath, but it does and it is too much for him to control—so he lets it happen, as natural and as easy as a hurricane.

Renjun stares at him for a moment before he answers. “What was the question?”

“Do you wish to go back to _Zhongguo_.”

“What was my answer then?”

“Yes.”

It lapses in silence, Jaemin is now looking at the ground. He cannot look Renjun in the eye—he does not wish to be right, but Jaemin knows he is. In the deepest crevices of his mind, he knows the truth.

“Then I guess you do not know me as well as I expected you to, your Majesty.”

Jaemin’s head snaps to Renjun, mouth agape.

_What_?

“I said no,” Renjun said simply, eyes returning to the ring of _iksolasok_ in his hands.

“Why?”

“Because I do not wish to go back.”

So, _so_ simple and yet Jaemin cannot fathom the weight of his words.

“You do not wish to go home?”

Renjun sighs, picking up another flower. “Where do you think my home is, my Prince?”

“ _Zhongguo_.” _Silla_.

“How can I call a foreign place my home, Jaemin?”

“What?” His voice is still, constant but that is because Jaemin is staring at Renjun so intently he does not see, nor feel, anything else.

“I have not been to _Zhongguo_ since the day I turned three. I have not seen it, nor felt it since I was a child. All I have of it are stories my grandfather had given me, but even they are scarce. I have scrolls and lullabies, but what are words and music, if I cannot give it a face?”

“Tell me, Jaemin. How can I call a place home if I have not seen its people, nor have I felt its love?”

Renjun finally looks at him after that, eyes bright and a small smile on his lips. He raises the ring of _iksolasok_ s to Jaemin. With delicate fingers and with the lightest of touches, Renjun lays the crown on his head—not without Jaemin scrambling to take off his headpiece. He sits still as Renjun adjusts the crown with careful hands.

“I chose to stay, Jaemin,” Renjun says once he leans back, gazing at Jaemin with fondness in his eyes. “You are my Prince, and Silla is my home.”

Jaemin realizes it then, through the fog of fondness he is staring at Renjun with. and through the fof in his chest. He is in love with Renjun—the boy he grew up with, the boy who smiled at flowers with a delicate happiness, the boy who touched him with the tenderness of a _molgyeon_ petal. 

Jaemin is in love with Renjun. Oh, how sweet was that to realize amidst the songs of the birds and the falling of the leaves.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The moment happens because Renjun can never say no to Jaemin.

Not his Prince. Never his Prince.

It happens because the elders have always said winter was for romance—that the first snow was always for the people who found love amidst the pressure to survive and the confinement of social class. That something about the cold weather froze everything, even the judgement that came with ignoring the social construct. Winter meant looking at everything with a slight fondness, they would say—everything was so cold and terrible, you were ultimately forced to look for silver linings.

It happens because Jaemin has always been a ‘think before you do’ person—prince that he is; and Renjun has always been loose-lipped—blunt at best, impulsive at worst.

It happens because the first snow occurs amidst their usual afternoon walk around the garden. The King dismissed Jaemin early, and he could not stop himself from running to Renjun.

This became routine; Jaemin has developed a looser schedule now. _Your last few years of freedom_ , or so the King says.

But it is nice—walking with Jaemin, talking with him about his newest lecture (Jaemin) and the fresh flowers that arrived that morning (Renjun). They are much older now, suns and moons have passed since they turned 18—since Renjun made the decision to stay and since Jaemin had his silent revelation.

They have grown—taller and sturdier (Jaemin), sharper and stricter (Renjun). They both have more responsibilities now; Jaemin focuses on the affairs of the regions and lands under Silla now—agriculture, abundance and distribution of crops. While Renjun is in-charge of the plants in the Queen and King’s garden, the one in front of their villa. A great honor Renjun holds with pride.

They have grown a lot, and for some reason, Renjun is struck with this realization right now. Amidst the garden, with Jaemin by his side. Amidst everything, amidst the changing treaties and the growing responsibilities—it is a daunting thought that Jaemin is still here. Beside him. Always.

Renjun turns to him, a smile on his lips, realization on the tip of his tongue. But as he turns, he is struck with another realization—Jaemin is staring at the sky as small bouts of snowflakes fall from the sky. Renjun feels the words get stuck in his throat.

Jaemin in golden robes against the falling snowflakes and the white skies.

_Ethereal_.

“Beautiful,” a whisper. It comes out as a whisper but Renjun did not intend for it to come out at all. Because you do not call your prince beautiful, not with the fondness or the breathlessness Renjun’s words are drenched with.

But Jaemin pays it no mind. Or maybe, he does but he does not voice it. 

Or maybe, Renjun fears, Jaemin knows—

Knows the secret Renjun keeps in the darkest abyss of his heart, knows that the fondness he holds for his Majesty is deeper than a scab wound. 

Jaemin looks at him with a smile, a grin so wide and so happy, Renjun can feel the way his heart practically stops.

“It is the first snow,” he says. As if Renjun never said anything.

_Do you not wish to ask?_ “It is,” Renjun says instead. Because Renjun may be loose-lipped but he has always been scared when it came to Jaemin.

“You know what the elders say about the first snow?”

“We grew up together, Jaemin,” Renjun rolls his eyes, in spite of his pounding heart and sweaty palms. “Of course, I know what they say.”

“I always thought it to be romantic,” he whispers, eyes still lingering at Renjun.

“Romantic?” Renjun giggles. “The Great Prince of Silla, Na Jaemin, actually finds something romantic?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jaemin laughs.

“Do not play with me. I have known you since you were a child,” Renjun teases him. “Since when have you found anything romantic?”

“I do not know. Maybe, what they say about the weather is true. Maybe, winter was made to make everything drip with romance.”

“You are ridiculous,” Renjun laughs, shoving Jaemin lightly.

They both laugh, delirious on something—red cheeks and puffs of white smoke. It dies down after a while, eyes finding each other again. Jaemin watches him, and the smile on his face is enough to make the blood rush back to Renjun’s face.

There is a quiet that blankets over them before Jaemin speaks again.

His voice is so tangible, so distinct, that Renjun hears him even with the rushing in his ears.

“You are beautiful too, you know.”

And _oh_ , how Renjun aches at the sound of each syllable that pours out of Jaemin.

He steps closer—and if Renjun was in the proper mindset, he would step back. But right now—

Right now, he does not find anything in himself to be proper.

Jaemin steps closer and closer with each step, and Renjun’s breathing becomes more labored.

When Jaemin cups his face, Renjun stops breathing altogether—heart pounding and ears ringing.

Eyes search his before Jaemin asks, before the words make Renjun’s world stop.

“Can I kiss you?”

Renjun says _yes_ but he does not know if it is audible. If it is in any way understandable—he cannot think nor can he move, Renjun does not think it is panic or anticipation. He thinks both emotions are way too similar.

But when Jaemin presses his lips against his—Renjun cannot think of anything else but the softness of Jaemin’s lips that remind him so much of how _jindallae_ feels between his fingertips.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Lover,_

_I do not know when you will see, or if you would ever see this._

_But I wish to tell you something._

_It is currently late at night; you have gone back to your cottage and I am supposed to be sleeping. But a thought haunts me—insistently like a phantom I cannot see. It keeps me awake and my only way to slumber is to give you my heart. I wish to say this to your face but I cannot. I wish to, I really do—to whisper this to you in the dark as I cradle you in my arms. You would look at me with a smile, a smile bright enough to battle the sun’s light and soft enough to compare to a molgyeon’s petals—and only maybe then will the phantom leave me alone. Because that is how it has always been. Because amidst floods and hurricanes, when I see the saccharine smile on your lips, everything disappears in spite of myself._

_I give you my everything._

_Ego. Pride. Soul. Heart. And bones._

_You have it all, my love._

_I am your’s, It may not ring true in the light of the day, but it is the hidden truth of the night. You have me, hard as I may try, you linger in my every word and thought—in every poem, in every scroll, in every passage. You are hidden in every space of them. I apologise, my heart, that it has to be so. If I were not king, I would parade you around—let our love feel the warmth of the sun and be blessed by the gods. Scholars will know your name because everything I write will be of you—every poem, every scroll, every passage._

_How blessed they would be to know you through my eyes._

  
  


_I have not told you this. But do you remember when my father asked you if you would like to stay in Silla? The moment we were dismissed and we found ourselves at the back of the palace? Do you remember? How you created a crown of flowers for me? Do you remember?_

_I suppose you do, you always had better memory than I._

_But here is something you do not know. It was in that moment when I realized that I could never look at blooming flowers and cherry blossoms without thinking of you, ever again. When you looked at me, I had realized that I could not live without you. That if you chose to go back, I would simply not know what to do. That if you did, I would long for you every day—phantom pains._

_We were eighteen then—eighteen, a laughable age for such a serious realization. I was not sure of anything then, not with my title, not with my duties—you were the one thing I was sure of, my love. The moment I realized, I knew, with all of my heart and body, that you were the one. The one I would always go back to at the end of the day. The one I would turn to when everything feels bleak and dark._

_But, my heart, were you not always the one? Even before that moment?_

_Were you not always the one I would turn to? Despite and in spite of everything?_

_You were always the one._

_And you will always be. No matter what happens tomorrow. It will always be you._

_Because as the water wades the shores of Silla, and as the moon rises when the sun sets—it will always be like this._

_Because despite every natural calamity, the waters will always come back, and moonlight will always caress us goodnight._

_I may not be a romantic, my heart. But I do not have to be a romantic to realize that when the stars were created, so were we—and so were our destinies._

_In the next life, I will find you and we can be with each other even with the gods watching us._

_But for now, I will love you in secret. That much I can promise._

  
  


_Your heart, in this lifetime and the next,_

_Jaemin._

_  
  
  
  
  
  
_

**Author's Note:**

> molgyeon; magnolia - nobility and dignity  
> jindallae; azalea - femininity and softness; passion that is still developing and fragile  
> mugunghwa; common hibiscus - delicate beauty and perfection; abundant in Korea and China  
> green butterflies - in some cultures, it signifies love  
> butterflies drinking from a blossom - it signifies a man in love  
> dongbaek; camellia - love, passion, deep desire  
> qieyun - a chinese rhyme dictionary produced during the sui dynasty  
> iksolasok; ixora - passion
> 
> \----
> 
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> [@wzcle](http:/twitter.com/wzcle)
> 
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> cc:
> 
> [@junle](http:/curiouscat.me/junle)


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